- 10 -
February 2045
Dean
Spending the entire morning hunched over the toilet is a rough start to the new month. At one point, I even fell asleep with my face on the seat, which of course prompted me to empty my stomach yet again when I woke up.
“Hangover meals!” Matt yells, opening the apartment door.
The smell of greasy food fills the air, and my stomach turns over again. Clearly, I hadn’t built up the alcohol tolerance I had assumed. Maybe last night was an exception to a long life of staying in. The books on my shelves taunt me through the crack of the bathroom door. Makes me smirk, even with the overwhelming urge to puke. If reading was my favorite hobby in a past life, wouldn’t the idea of it fill me with some sort of peace, or joy? Then again, I felt a lot of joy last night while searching for some peace, and look where it’s gotten me. Empty-handed and empty-stomached.
I thought I could drink myself into it, a place for my soul to settle, but the more I drank the more I ached. It’s becoming harder and harder to claim I’m not attached.
A crush—that’s all it is. A minor infatuation.
“Rise and shine, it’s hangover food time!” Hudson bursts through my door, holding four bags of McDonald’s, and the smell triggers another dry heave.
“Yikes, did you have a little too much confidence last night, Dean?” he mocks.
“Do I even want to remember?” I groan, wiping a hand down my face and smearing the stream of vomit left on my chin.
“That’s for you to decide, but the blonde was a true ten. You also wouldn’t shut up about the girl with a cream crewneck, whoever she is.” He winks before proudly yelling, “Let’s eat!”
Peeling my arms from the toilet, I slowly push myself off the ground. The spinning room steadies as I place a hand on the wall and take one last glance at the books. What would life be like if I read them?
“Don’t you have to be at work soon?” Matt calls from the kitchen.
“I’ve got twenty-six minutes,” I grumble, hobbling to meet them.
Boswell will probably send me home again the second he gets a whiff of me. Regardless, I scarf down a breakfast burrito and sprint to the shower.
In ten minutes, I’m out the door, speed-walking and sweating off the leftover alcohol. With each step away from The Marmotte, my shoulders visibly flinch and my head pounds louder, protesting missing my morning coffee. Or, maybe it’s begging to return to the sun, but hungover and barely functioning is hardly a better impression than standing and staring. It’s good I’m skipping this morning. Gives her a chance to miss me—if she’s thought about me. Surely she’s thought about me? I’ve thought about her enough for the both of us, but . . . another day, then. I’ll see her another day.
With how the morning went, I wasn’t so sure today could be good. Funny how the universe surprises you. It must have been offering me a shred of grace because there weren’t any fires to fight. Always a great day when no one’s life is falling apart. Around 4:30, the next crew trickles in, Matt and Hudson with them.
“Well, Chief, you owe us twenty bucks.” Hudson grins, holding his palm out in front of Boswell. “A deal is a deal. Pay up!”
“I didn’t think you’d ever get this hermit out of his shell,” Boswell replies, chuckling as he pulls two crisp twenties out of his pocket. “Good work, boys.”
“Thank you,” Matt says, plucking one from his hand.
Their faces are a perfect display of cocky arrogance as Hudson winks and mumbles, “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Like a proud father, Boswell pats their shoulders and heads back to his office. No wonder they made such an effort to get me to join. Stings a little, but I’d rather not get tangled up in the details.
“Since when do you two work together?” I ask, gesturing between Thing One and Two.
“Substitute shift,” Matt answers. Always a man of few words.
“Three of the night shift guys are out sick. We’re still one short, though, if you want to join?” Hudson hangs the question in the air like candy in front of a baby. “You don’t have to. We all know you’ve had quite the day, with all that confidence you displayed last night.”
Watching them laugh together, pride stomps down exhaustion.
“I’ll stay,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Yeah?” Matt’s voice lifts with Hudson’s eyebrows.
“Of course.”
“Well, shit. First time working together.” Hudson chuckles.
“The three musketeers.” I smile, intending it to be fake, but realizing it’s real. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that this’ll be a night I’ll want to remember.
The alarm goes off in the middle of dinner, urging us to gear up, and within five minutes the truck is speeding into the city. As we fly by The Marmotte, I let out a thankful sigh—my favorite place is still intact.
The truck finally stops outside of a four-story apartment building nearly identical to our own. First assessment, there’s no visible flames or smoke. Regardless, the street is lined with residents nervously glancing between their home and us with crushing, reliant hope.
Find and evacuate—that’s my mission, and Hudson and Matt trail me closely as I barrel through the door.
First and second floor are clear, but chaos has struck the third. Heaps of smoke are pouring out of the open door at the end of the hall.
“Keep low!” Hudson shouts, in case any residents are still escaping.
A screaming voice cuts through the air, followed by a howl of laughter. What kind of person laughs during a fire?
Entering the apartment, Matt calls out “Fire department!” and uncontrollable belly laughter explodes from two women clutching their stomachs on the floor. Another one is tip-toed on the kitchen island, frantically waving a towel to push smoke away from the blaring alarm.
Despite it being our first call together, the Three Musketeers fall perfectly into our places. Matt helps the two women up off of the floor, quickly escorting them out the door, and laughter resounds through the hallway as they make their great escape. Hudson gets to work extinguishing the fire contained in the oven. Little fire, lots of smoke.
As I turn to help the third woman, a note on the fridge catches my attention.
Blank Space: Mr. Stand and Stare
My eyes snap to the woman on the island, and panic punches my chest. Adrenaline surges through my fingertips, numbing them as I clench and unclench my fingers.
That navy sweatshirt . . .
The glow of her smile cuts loose a primal need to protect.
“I have it secured!” Hudson yells as I rush to her, but my pool of logic evaporates in the heat.
Small fires surge all the time, and her bare legs would burn in a millisecond. She will not be a part of an accident. Not on my watch, and not ever.
Tightly grabbing her hips, I pull her down to safety. I mean . . . to me. I could be her safety, though. This is good practice for it.
“It’s okay, Dean!” Hudson assures as I toss her over my shoulder, but it’s no use.
In record time I’m through the hallway, down the stairs, and on the street. The cheering crowd snaps me from my protective daze, just in time to hear her protest, “Put me down!” as her friends fall to the ground, again, in unapologetic laughter. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize them when I first ran in.
The fresh air dims the roaring in my head enough to slowly lower her off my shoulder, and my hands fly to her waist, steadying her as she sways. She clings to my arm like a girlfriend, but lets go so fast I question if it happened at all.
It’s her.
I’d never forget that face. Couldn’t—I’ve tried.
With one look in my eyes, light breaks through her fury, and my heart skips because it’s written all over her face.
She remembers me too.
Together, we giggle over the odds of this, and her laugh feels like coming home. Like being recognized, or admired, or connected to something other than time. She’s a deep breath in a shallow world.
“Really?” she asks. “Over the shoulder?”
Really, I think.
Not attached, that’s the rule. But holding her honey-golden stare, I’ve never been more thankful to be called to a scene.
Looks like I didn’t miss my daily dose of sunshine after all.
Hallee
Marlowe and Avery can’t get off the floor. They’re doubled over, wheezing because the fire alarm is going off . . . again. My nights cooking dinner rarely end well, but it’s never been this bad. Usually, I try my best, cuss like a sailor, and we grab cereal instead of whatever meal I tried to cook. Tonight, there’s actually flames.
“Shut up and help me!” I scream, laughing out my nerves.
It was all going well, until it wasn’t.
I was tossing the salad while the chicken tenders and sweet potato fries baked in the oven. Basically, a five-star meal at the rate we’ve been going. One minute it was going perfectly, and then the next?
Bang.
Marlowe and Avery startled off the couch, and we opened the oven to a graveyard of chicken tenders and shattered glass. The pan—exploded?
It didn’t take long for the fallen tenders to catch fire, filling the entire apartment, hallway, and third floor with smoke. Our personal fire alarm led to the entire building evacuating and the fire department being called. Major inconveniences all around, caused by yours truly. Very classic of me—selfish too.
Wait until the firemen get here and realize their dinner was interrupted by a woman who simply can’t cook. Well, in my defense, the cooking was going well until the pan decided to disintegrate.
Pan, you had one job.
Hold. The. Dinner.
The universe is sending me a sign. For what? I’m not sure. But it feels like something . A tug on a tether connected to something else.
“You are no help!” I yell at Marlowe and Avery, jumping on the island to wave our dish towel at the blaring alarm. They’re still on the floor laughing when the firemen announce their arrival. They got here incredibly fast, considering the station’s across town. One glance, and Marlowe shoots an impressed look in my direction.
“You should start a fire more often, Hal,” she mumbles, quietly enough it’s barely audible.
Upon entry, one of the firemen immediately rushes to them.
“There’s no immediate danger.” Avery snorts.
“Just a glass pan coming for our lives.” Marlowe wheezes, and their laughter echoes down the hallway.
The remaining firemen assess the oven. I wasn’t scared before they got here, so why is my heartbeat faster now? They’re used to entire buildings engulfed in flames. This campfire is elementary at best.
Inexplicably, one of them rushes to me and grips my waist. Okay, wow, strong hands but wait, why is he—?
“Over the shoulder? Really?” I yell, but it’s drowned out by the siren.
“Really?” I try again, louder.
As he runs me out the door, an utterly embarrassing gasp slips out of my mouth, and suddenly I’m thankful for the alarm I was cursing two seconds ago. Who can blame me? His speed and strength are . . . impressive.
He’s dedicated to his work.
The second he carries me outside, Marlowe and Avery hit the sidewalk, laughing uncontrollably. This is ridiculous; the only real threat here is the one to my pride, and it’s not the only thing hanging out in the open with my butt in the air like this. Changing into more appropriate pants wasn’t on the top of my to-do list in the chaos.
“Put me down!” I playfully hit his board of a back, and that seems to do the trick.
Here he goes with those hands again, wrapping them around my waist and lowering me slowly. When I sway slightly, his grip tightens and I cling to his strong arms. Didn’t need to, but might as well milk it. Sculpting my face into rage, I raise my chin to cut him with a sharp stare, but all the air leaves my lungs.
Those eyes— his eyes.
My cheeks burn as he joins in with my nervous giggle.
“Really?” I ask. “Over the shoulder?”
What in the world?
Mr. Stand and Stare is here, doing what he does best. The silence starts my mind’s marathon, running it back through the last few minutes. His urgency upstairs was directly after he glanced at our fridge where Marlo—
“Oh my god!” I gasp.
“Hello, Sunshine.” His low, raspy voice cushions my fall into the pit of social humiliation.
With kind eyes, he reaches up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Punch me.
In the.
Face.
Please, knock me out.
A suspicious cough snaps the tension, tearing apart our glances. Marlowe and Avery are waiting, watching behind a calm and collected guise.
“Hot damn, Hal!” Marlowe’s eyebrows raise to her hairline. “Please introduce us to your knight in shining armor.”
Avoiding eye contact, he responds before I can properly ask his name.
“ Mr. Stand and Stare , at your service.”
Shock widens their eyes, mine fall to the floor in fifty shades of mortification, and Marlowe’s lips curve upward as the other two firemen approach.
“Everyone still feeling alright?” the largest asks, undressing Avery with his eyes.
“Better now,” she says with a wink, and Marlowe and I freeze, dumbfounded because she’s usually the shy one.
“Hudson.” He reaches out his hand.
Marlowe locks eyes with the mysterious one. “And you are?”
“Matt.”
“I’m Marlowe, and that’s Avery.”
All eyes shift to me as I nervously tug at the sweatshirt. Hudson and Matt give a devilish grin seeing me in the logo and glance at their friend.
“She’s cream crewneck,” he explains.
“ Ohhh ,” they sound off, and there’s something oddly comforting about the three of them. Friendly, almost.
“Hallee,” I blurt, reaching out to my nameless rescuer, “but my friends call me Hal. So either one works, I guess.”
Time felt strange as I said that, blurring in the sea of his galaxy eyes, and I could swear his face shifted, a little confused.
Did I just friend-zone him? I didn’t mean to. Don’t want him to think I did.
“Dean,” he finally unveils, and his name crushes the spider web of insecure thoughts spooling in my brain. It’s an answered call to my soul, and an explanation for the exploding glass pan.
Order has been restored.
We are together again.
Dean—the owner of the world’s most captivating eyes. Makes me blush when they travel up my body like they’re doing now.
“Hi, Dean,” I say, and conveniently, our friends all have somewhere else to be.
Holding back my smile is more challenging than it should be as he closes the space between us. Leaning in, his warm breath caresses the top of my ear.
“My sweatshirt looks good on you, Hal,” he whispers, pulling away before I can melt. With a single wink, he turns and heads back to the truck.
“Dean,” I breathe, quietly begging him to stay. Begging for him to look at me, smile at me, touch me just one more time.
My left hand reaches out and I smack it down with my other. What the hell am I doing?
Evidently, his soul speaks a different language than mine because he doesn’t glance back, and the ache in my chest grows as he’s driven away by the very truck that brought him back to me.